


Beginning a Life

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Bath, Explaining histories, F/M, Food, Scars, first-time sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 10:16:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13362498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: Their first night together.  Breakfast in bed.  A warm bath.  The discovery of terrible scars from their past lives.  These are some of the things that start Barbossa and the innkeeper on their way to becoming a couple.





	Beginning a Life

**Author's Note:**

> What Barbossa and the innkeeper whisper to each other are bits from the Bible's Song of Songs. He doesn't quote exactly, but speaks as he both understands and recalls it, filtered through the normal dialectal twist of his speech, the fact that he's under emotional and physical stress, and changing the pronoun from _he_ to _she_ to fit the situation. The innkeeper answers with an apropos phrase from the same verses. Written in italics to make it clear that they're quotes. Barbossa wanted very much to read the S-o-S to her in RUINATION; he couldn't then, but now he can. Awww.
> 
> "Petticoats" — petticoat breeches. We'd call them culottes today. The quintessential sailor's garment, they were generally knee-length (although they could be substantially shorter, like the ones Barbossa describes himself wearing), made of canvas, and constructed for active motion, particularly climbing. If Barbossa's voluminous woollen breeches didn't have buttoned/tied cuffs at the knee, they'd hang exactly like petticoats. If you own the book _The Art of Pirates of the Caribbean_ , the concept art shows him wearing typical wide-legged petticoats. 
> 
> Remember the plait in Barbossa's hair that we saw in _Curse of the Black Pearl_ , and again on the Davy Jones Locker beach in _At World's End_? I studied the screenshots and it's quite long; unbraided, it's past the middle of his back, while the front portion is cut just below his shoulders. It gives the innkeeper a lot to work — and play — with… and I'd just love to think that Barbossa experiences the delightful tingles of ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response), as having one's hair gently handled is a major trigger, so that's what I describe. The term ASMR was only coined in 2010, but the sensation itself is very real and has existed forever.
> 
> Chemises can be anywhere from hip- to ankle-length. Unless it's the height of summer, the innkeeper wears the long ones.
> 
> There's a postscript at the end of the story dealing with (among other things) Barbossa's attitudes regarding the differing ways in which he expects that little boys and little girls will be treated when they misbehave.
> 
> Flashbacks and wandering tenses. Always and forever, wandering tenses ;-)

 

 

 

-oOo-  


 

 

 

 

  
  
  
"Missus!"  comes Cora's voice as she raps on the innkeeper's bedroom door.  "Missus!  Time to get up!"  
  
The maid doesn't realize that the innkeeper has spent the night down the hall in Barbossa's room, but she's knocking and calling loudly enough that her mistress hears it from where she is and starts to slide out from under the covers.  
  
She's stopped by a warm hand rubbing against her waist.  "Must ye go, sweet?"  Barbossa mumbles.  "At least, don't leave without first givin' me a chance again t' hold ye close."  
  
The innkeeper gets more than his arms about her when she slips back into his embrace:  she gets his hands and legs, his lips against her neck and the teasing nudge of his hips.  "Stop that;  I have to get ready to make breakfast,"  she giggles when Barbossa squeezes her breast, then lowers his head to breathe warmly through the linen that covers it.  
  
"Ye want me t' stop?  Really?"  
  
"No, but I have to shut Cora up before she wakes the whole house, and then go down to the kitchen and make sure she doesn't slack off."  Actually, what the innkeeper really needs is to relieve herself of the tea she drank last night, but she's hardly going to admit that.  "Now, you wait here and rest;  I'll bring you something to eat."  
  
Grinning to himself, Barbossa lies back and stretches, watching her gather her dressing gown and shawl about herself and leave the room.  _Ah, m' darlin', th' things I'll teach ye_ ,  he thinks.  _Ye were so sweet an' warm last night, an' each night hence'll be even better_ ….  
  
That's what the innkeeper thinks as she goes slipping into her own bedroom, locking the door behind her.  She feels so different this morning — instead of a tired, overworked servant, she feels like a soft and beautiful woman — and gets a reminder why after using the chamber pot and patting herself dry.  "Oh!!"  she gasps, quickly pressing another linen square between her legs when she feels a slight, pleasant sting and a tickling dribble, examining the cloth to find it wet with Barbossa's seed, mixed with a streak of her maiden's blood.  "Ohhh, Hector…!"  His name is exhaled in a sigh as she recalls the moment when he slid into her and the way his lips trembled with his kiss;  how he hushed her when she cried out at the unaccustomed sensation of being coupled with him.  Belying his reputation for brutality, Barbossa tried to be as gentle as he knew how, for he didn't want to hurt her so badly that she'd shove him away and never want to give herself to him again.    
  
And then, ohhh, how tenderly, softly he'd laughed as they gazed at each other through the dim light and it became plain that he was fulfilling a dream:  for him, for her.    
  
Growing up in a boarding house full of mostly male lodgers who rarely watched their language and sometimes paid little heed to being decently dressed when they answered a maid's knock at their doors, the innkeeper learned very early the differences between men and women.  But although she knew by way of brief, sideways glances what men looked like, and learned through their talk about what went where and what the consequences could be if it did, it was still such a surprise when Barbossa came home to make a reality all that she'd imagined about him.  He was so tall, and even by the light of only a single candle, she could tell that everything about him was of a size to match;  she'd been shy of him and a little nervous, wondering how painful this first time might be.  What she never expected was that he'd first lift the hem of her nightdress and press his cheek to her thigh, his breath hot on her skin as he whispered,  "Shall I give yer pink pearl a kiss t' help make ye ready t' receive me?" in the instant before he swept his tongue over her.  
  
If the innkeeper had the slightest inclination to resist or even ask what he meant, it vanished straightaway.  She hadn't known about this, or that anything could feel so good, with Barbossa holding her still and keeping at her until she was shuddering;  and, to her embarrassment, she let out a high-pitched yelp before she could stop herself, twisting against him and dampening his face from forehead to beard.  It didn't bother him, though;  in fact, he responded with a low, growling laugh, saying how very pleased he was that his ministrations should give such delight.  
  
Barbossa'd not waited nor let her calm down, but had climbed up and immediately settled upon her;  a warm, salt-scented blanket pulling her legs around him as he worked himself into her;  and, if she'd not known better — what man would do such a thing, after all? — the innkeeper would have sworn he was crying.  
  
What man, indeed.  If the light had been better and if their height difference hadn't put his lips at her temple in those first moments, she'd have seen the tears in Barbossa's eyes and felt their dampness on the pillow.  He'd spent a lifetime being greedy for things such as riches and respect, but during his curs'd years, he'd learned the difference between mere greed and lust, and heartfelt desire, and it was the latter that gripped him now.  "Shh, my sweet,"  he said softly when the innkeeper whimpered, with sudden awareness of how tense she was.  _What's this:  am I thinkin' aright that she were virgin?!  How did I not know?_   He was annoyed with himself that it had never occurred to him;  what, had he been fool enough to expect she'd been sleeping with one and all while he'd been gone?  _I tried m' best not t' rush, but mayhap I should ha' gone slower still_ …  "There now, Dove;  if ye've pain, I promise 'twill pass in th' merest moment.  Take a slow breath, now, an' relax;  get used t' holdin' me within."  Barely able to see straight for being so aroused, Barbossa had to force himself not to grasp her hips and dig in as fast and deep as he would have if she'd been a simple whore or a woman of vast experience;  instead, he took the time to enjoy knowing that everything the innkeeper felt and learned would be at his hands.  "Oooh, there now,"  he sighed after a minute had passed.  "I can feel how yer flower's blossomed;  how ye've grown wet an' soft 'round me as ye should, for naught 'bout this be meant t' hurt, but only t' give ye th' sweetest pleasure."  
  
The innkeeper was certainly finding _that_ out the longer he gave her to adjust to this new feeling.  "It doesn't hurt… not really, not at all… It's just… you're so… how do I have room to accept such a… a large visitor?"  she blurted out, feeling ridiculous even as she said it.  
  
Barbossa tried to keep it back that he wouldn't insult her, but he couldn't help it:  he laughed, thinking,  _Only an untouched woman would wonder if there be space within her t' store th' mast_. "I'll thank ye for th' fine compliment, darlin', but I bain't _that_ big,"  he teased.  "'Tis only that ye're unused t' bein' with a man, eh?  Ah now, don't close yer eyes or look away;  ye've nothin' t' be ashamed of."  Then, remembering a long-ago wish to speak to her the words from one of the spicier sections of his Bible, Barbossa pressed his lips to innkeeper's, murmuring,  "' _Let her kiss me wi' th' kisses of her mouth, for her love be better'n wine_ …'"  
  
She twisted her fingers into his hair, breaking from him only when they were both running out of air, and replying breathlessly,  "' _Let his left hand be under my head, and his right hand embrace me._ '"  
  
Surprised and pleased that she should know and find him worthy of such exalted words, Barbossa tenderly kissed her cheek and went on.  "' _Oh, m' Dove, that be hid in th' clefts of th' rock, let me see yer count'nance, let me hear yer voice;  for sweet be yer voice, an' yer count'nance be comely_.'"  He took a long, shaky breath.  "An' if ye think I can recall one bit more…!"  
  
Barbossa had experienced the sensual arts of paid women in every corner of the globe, and many had given him immense gratification, but now he couldn't think of anything except that they meant nothing compared to this soft, pretty woman who desired him without her eye on his purse or any wish other than to please him.  She'd always wanted him — he was sure of that now — and he'd yearned for the gentle innkeeper for more years than he cared to consider;  might have been with her long ago if he'd not gone running off so precipitously.  What exactly the incoming message had been that sent him off to his ship, he couldn't quite recall;  only that his first mate had thought it urgent.  
  
If he ever meets up with the man again, he'll give him the thrashing he deserves for taking such a priceless moment away and making him wait so long to get it back.  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
While he waits for the innkeeper's return, Barbossa makes a circuit of the room, examining its furnishings and stopping to urinate out the window before he suddenly thinks, embarrassed,  _Shite, ye great slummock, are ye truly not rememberin' what's provided in this house?  There be a proper chamber pot in here, so quit actin' like ye're still aboard ship 'mongst nothin' but men who don't care where ye piss 'long as it bain't on them!_  
  
He locates said convenience under the foot of the bed, just where the innkeeper always puts it — a large, high-quality covered one, so it will be easy to carry away without sloshing and nothing malodorous will taint the room's air once the lid's clapped on — along with a neat stack of linen squares.  When making the transition to land after a long time at sea, he's sometimes afflicted by a day or two of a windy, watery belly;  and, although he hopes it won't happen this time, it's good to be sure of the place to run for relief if it does.     
  
Though there's an armoire, Barbossa's clothes aren't properly hung up — he and the innkeeper were too busy clutching at each other to bother with such niceties — but neither are they scattered to the winds:  his coat is tossed over a chair, his breeches and waistcoat likewise, although his sark has gone sliding off onto the floor.  His weapons, baldric, and belt are dropped in a pile, one boot is standing, with stockings and sash stuffed into it, and the other's on its side.  
  
There's a washstand, its pitcher filled with cool water which he pours into the basin, splashing it over his face and the back of his neck, drying himself with a pretty embroidered towel;  and, in these clean surroundings, he begins to realize just how grubby he is.  A look at the sheets finds them grimy and he knows it's his fault, but there's nothing to be done about it now, so he climbs back into bed to get some more sleep;  though not before noting, with a twist in his heart, that they're bloodied where the innkeeper had lain.  _Virgin:  aye_ ,  he thinks, putting his fingers to the telltale mark.  _All these years, an m' Dove waited for me t' come home.  She didn't need to, but she did._  
  
It's a strange, splendid thing to feel for the first time in his rough life:  that a woman cares not for his money, position, or power;  that she desires him for himself alone.  
  
Barbossa is still lying quietly, reliving every delicious moment of the night before, when the innkeeper returns with a polished wooden tray laden with toothsome things for him to eat:  fried gammon with the crisp edges he likes, bread both soft and toasted, fresh-churned butter, a pot of honey, thick chunks of the local cheese, a whole cold spiced chicken garnished with slices of lemon left over from last night's dinner, a salt cellar and some crushed peppercorns, a peeled orange presented in the shape of a flower on its plate, and — wonder of wonders that she remembered — a beautiful, perfect, crisp apple.  To drink, she's brought red wine, a tankard of ale, fresh cold water, lemon water, juice pressed from a combination of oranges and limes from the trees in her garden, and sweet milky tea;  any or all of them, whatever he wants.  "If you don't care for the tea, I'll drink it,"  she says as she puts the tray down on the bed beside him.  
  
Though he much enjoys the refreshment it gives, tea is something Barbossa almost never drinks at sea because access to sweet water is so limited — it's a beverage beyond foul when made with water that's been in the barrel too long — and let alone being able to have it dosed with fresh milk.  The last time he tried shipping a nanny — he'd just signed on a man with the knowledge of milking such creatures — the blasted thing got seasick, dried up, and the cook had to butcher it within four days of leaving port.  It wasn't a total loss, as the goat ended up making for a day's fine eating for the whole crew, but she gave not a drop of milk to drink.  "'Course I want it,"  he tells her, taking the painted china cup she offers in his sharp-nailed hands.  
  
Barbossa has been so long in the society of coarse men, and women for whom rough conduct means less than nothing, that he hasn't yet tempered his table manners to suit the innkeeper's gentle company.  She watches, secretly amused, as he slurps the tea from a delicate cup the likes of which he probably hasn't handled in years — somehow, she can't recall seeing if he ever drank from one during his previous visits, though most likely he did — with the occasional dribble flowing down into his beard.  "Slow down, there's as much more as you want downstairs,"  she laughs at him, dabbing at Barbossa's chin with a corner of her apron.  
  
He's had many fine meals at Grantham House, but none to rival this feast, served by the hand of the innkeeper for his pleasure alone.  "Mmm, good,"  he sighs, pulling strips of chicken meat off the bones and wrapping them in soft buttered bread, washing the lot down with wine before he does the same thing with the gammon and cheese and toast, accompanied by the deliciously tart lemon water.  Barbossa unthinkingly uses the edge of the sheet to wipe the crumbs and grease from his mouth until he notices he's been provided with a linen serviette, and he gives the innkeeper a sheepish smile as he picks it up:  _Oops_.  "Ye'll be fattenin' me up in no time,"  he says quickly, hoping she might not have seen it or will at least forgive his gaffe.  He's never liked how slender he is and has hidden it all of his life under multiple layers of clothing;  although, he notices, his physique doesn't seem to bother the innkeeper a bit.  "Ye _do_ think I need it…?"  he hazards to guess.  
  
But the innkeeper shakes her head.  "No.  I think you're beautiful the way you are."  
  
Barbossa might dismiss her words as mere flattery if it wasn't so very plain how much she means them;  and, like others who can't see themselves objectively, he doesn't realize that, in his own mind, he's using all the wrong words to describe himself.  Scrawny he might have been as a boy, that much is true, but that was decades ago, and since then, he's markedly changed.  Skinny arms and legs have given way to firm muscles;  not bulky, but long and lean;  'slender' in the best sense of the word, just as his father was.  His shoulders, if not the broad ones of a hulk, are exceptionally strong, as is his back, thanks to endless years of fighting against rigging, capstan, and helm, and wielding a brutally heavy cutlass;  and if Barbossa doesn't have a puffed-out chest like some men, it doesn't matter a bit to the innkeeper, whose soft cheek and warm breasts fit against it so nicely, and who takes such pleasure in circling her fingertips through its light frost of hair.  His waist and hips are trim, his whole body lithe and limber, his male parts substantial and made to be pleasing, whether gripped within the warmth of a woman or by his own hand;  and the more he hears praise from the innkeeper about how beautiful every part of him is, the more he'll finally begin to believe it.  
  
She's still watching Barbossa, a smile on her face, unaware of his self-critical thoughts.  "I missed you so much, Hector,"  she confesses.  "I kept watching and waiting for you to come back, but you never did."  The smile fades and she bites her lip.  "I was afraid you'd…"  
  
His hand's over her mouth before she can finish the thought.  "Shh, don't say it;  those years be over now, an' I'm here.  I'm here."  
  
He finishes his breakfast, the innkeeper sitting with him in companionable silence, offering her a bite of the apple, pleased when she accepts.  "Ye've outdone yerself,"  he tells her.  "Yer old Nan were a slavedrivin' bitch, but she made a damn fine cook of ye, an' no lie."  
  
"Aye, she was that,"  the innkeeper sighs, putting her hand on Barbossa's knee before she rises from the bed and takes up the tray.  "Can't say as I miss her much."  
  
"Nor I,"  he snorts.  Then,  "But I missed _you_."  
  
"Did you?"  The innkeeper is trembling, and she puts the tray down on a nearby table;  quickly, lest she drop it.  
  
Barbossa scrambles to her side, the quilt clutched around him with one arm, the other around her waist to keep her from falling.  "Aye,"  he whispers, leading her back to the bed, where he sits her down.  "Aye, an' ye must ne'er doubt it.  Life weren't kind t' me, see," — it's all he dares tell her — "but no matter how dire it got, it couldn't take th' mem'ries I had of ye.  Not one."  
  
The innkeeper bursts into tears.  
  
Barbossa's not one to tolerate snuffling, weepy-eyed women, and he's as likely as anything else to snarl in annoyance and give them a smack, but this is different.  God only knows how the innkeeper bore up all these years if she missed him anywhere near as much as he missed her.  
  
She quiets and catches her breath, and he's about to coax her into lying down again when he catches sight of the begrimed sheets.  "Will ye do somethin' for me?"  he asks.  "As ye see, I shoulda known I weren't in any condition t' hold nor lie with a clean woman like yerself, an' I bain't so now, so I 'pologize for muckin' up th' linens…"  
  
"Hush,"  she sniffles, rubbing the tears from her eyes and trying to compose herself.  "You needn't apologize for a thing…"  
  
"But I do, sweet."  Barbossa's not sure how to ask.  "Might ye bring me a bucket or two of water an' a rag so's I bain't this damnably filthy?"  
  
The innkeeper runs a finger over his lips.  "I'll do better.  I got a proper tin bathing tub since the last time you were here;  would you like a warm bath?  I've soap and a sponge and everything."  
  
"Ye mean… one big enough t' get in all th' way?"  
  
"Mm-hm.  Now, don't tell me you're old-fashioned and believe in baths being dangerous."  
  
"Don't know how I could;  not when I end up in th' water so much anyway."  Barbossa sighs happily at the prospect.  "'Twill feel good, th' water bein' warm an' fresh."  
  
"All right, then.  Wait here while I get the tub and fill it up."  
  
After informing Cora that she's in charge of the inn for a couple of hours, the innkeeper lugs the tub from its hiding place in a cupboard, then begins to haul the water from the well.  It's all cold at first, and honestly, Barbossa's so used to cold water that he says it would be fine the way it is, but,  "No,"  she tells him.  "A few kettles of hot water, and it will feel so much better.  Be patient."  
  
Patience isn't exactly one of Barbossa's virtues, but he reminds himself — again — that this is a new situation;  that he's being cared for and made comfortable, so why argue or fuss?  
  
He watches as the innkeeper pours kettle after kettle of steaming water into the metal tub, testing it until she deems it the proper temperature;  then she gathers together a bar of her best castile soap, a large golden sponge, and two fresh linen sheets.  "All right,"  she tells him, extending her hand with a smile.  "It's ready.  You can bathe with a sheet on or…"  She blushes.  "… or not.  It's your choice."  
  
Barbossa studies her.  "Are ye shy of lookin' at me, darlin'?"  he asks, and there's something in his voice that sounds suspiciously like a snicker.  
  
The blush deepens.  "Not really,"  she replies after a moment.  
  
_Little liar_ ,  he thinks, trying not to laugh.  _Ye ne'er laid abed with a man afore last night an' I bain't so sure ye're ready t' look 'pon me in th' daylight just yet_.  But it doesn't stop him from climbing out of bed in his full nude glory, stretching, then padding over to the tub and getting in.  
  
The innkeeper's eyes widen, not so much because of his nakedness, but at her first full-on look at the ugly, rippling scar on his right leg.  From the first time they met, she knew he limped, but never knew why;  felt the indentation of injured flesh the night before, but it didn't register for what it was.  It's as badly stitched up as the cut on his face;  but, unlike that wound, this one clearly still pains him.  "Oh, Hector!"  she cries.  "Hector, what did this to you?"  
  
Barbossa shrugs.  "Shark, when I were in me twenties an' a cockboat I were gettin' into got tossed.  Slimy bastard got two of me mates, an' I thought I might be soon t' follow, but I stuck m' knife in its eye so's it only got a bite of me leg instead of th' whole thing.  Got hauled back up on deck on a rope, an' for a bit, I feared I might be spendin' th' rest of m' life as a one-legged cook;  surgeon, though, managed t' sew me up afore I could bleed out, an' the rest is as ye see.  Lost a bit of strength in it, but it holds me upright just th' same."  He smiles at the innkeeper.  "Hurts some in foul weather, but ye mustn't worry, Dove;  'twere a lifetime ago an' I live with it fine."  Then he pinches her cheek and settles down in the tub.  
  
"And this?"  
  
The innkeeper is running her thumb over the thick, raised scar on his right cheek that stops short of Barbossa's moustache and barely misses the corner of his eye.  She noticed it the night before, but she was preoccupied with her own shyness about being intimate with him for the first time, and it didn't occur to her to say anything then.  "Oh, my dear, what happened?  When…?"  
  
Barbossa's afraid for an instant that she finds it so ugly that it will change the way she feels about him, but a closer look shows nothing but concern in her eyes.  "Were a long time ago, sweet,"  he answers,  "p'raps a month or two after I last saw ye.  Got int' a duel with a man what were insultin' me ship an' prowess as a sailor.  He managed t' lay me face open, as ye see, but no matter;  not when I were the one what skewered his heart an' opened his throat for good measure.  Oh, there now, darlin', I'm not meanin' t' make ye sick for thinkin' of it…!"  _I must remember that I be talkin' t' a soft woman, an' not one of th' men_ ,  he chides himself.  "There now.  Don't think of it any longer."  
  
The innkeeper continues to stroke her fingers over the scar.  "I have a salve for that to make it softer so it won't pull at the edges."  
  
That provokes a rueful laugh.  "Hope ye have a big pot of it, Dove,"  Barbossa sighs.  "'Tis hardly th' only scar I'm bearin', an' 'tis small enough compared t' th' one on me leg an' some of th' others."  
  
For the time being, the innkeeper tries not to examine him too pointedly for other scars;  not when she wants him to enjoy being bathed rather than feeling he's undergoing an inspection for the injuries sustained over the course of his life.  
  
The tub isn't terribly large, and obviously not made for men as tall as Barbossa;  it's awkward to sit in since he has to fold himself up to fit.  But it's no more than a trifling inconvenience, the feeling of which vanishes instantly as the wonderful sensation of warm, clean water surrounds him, and he groans in something near to bliss when the innkeeper begins to wash him.  
  
She smiles, delighted, when she discovers something she didn't notice in the dark:  a large, ornate compass rose tattooed on Barbossa's back, marred only slightly by the stripes of old floggings and on one point by a scar from a glancing knife wound.  "But why there?"  she asks.  "It's beautiful, Hector;  don't you want to be able to see it?"  
  
"Ah, darlin', I don't need t' see th' winds or directions t' know they be there,"  Barbossa replies.  But he makes a mental note for a future, smaller tattoo of the compass he hopes will please her and that he'll be able to see as well.  
  
Though she does take note of every last one of them, the innkeeper makes no further mention of the myriad scars on his body, nor does she comment on how dark the water turns from the ground-in dirt on his skin, but gently scrubs him with her soap and sponge, every bit of him:  his hair and beard, face and neck, shoulders and chest, his arms, back, and belly, legs and feet.  She avoids at first washing his most delicate bits, but once the rest of him is clean, she smiles.  "You've a choice,"  she says.  "I'd be pleased to wash the rest of you… or you can."  
  
"Ye think I'd pass up havin' me manly parts bein' bathed at yer hand?"  Barbossa laughs back.  "Go to it."  
  
He's silent as the innkeeper draws the soapy sponge between his legs, or almost, until a soft whimper gives away how good it feels.  "I'd ask if ye know what ye're doing', but… oh damn, woman, ye got a dangerous touch!"  he warns her.  "I'd have ye in here if th' tub weren't so small."  
  
"Nice?"  she asks.  
  
"Oh, ayyyye…"  The tub might be too small for two people, but there's plenty of room for one extra hand, and Barbossa catches the innkeeper's to hold it where it is, closing it around him.  "You started this, sweet.  Now ye must finish it."  
  
The room is silent except for the hitch in his breathing and a slight splash of water as he helps her to stroke.  She doesn't look down — she's not brave enough for that yet — but watches his reaction as he runs his tongue between his lips, and she can feel every bit of him from smooth tip to crisp, curling hair;  so hard, yet indescribably tender.  
  
Barbossa slips his free hand to the back of the innkeeper's head, pulling her closer, his lips at her ear.  "Faster."  She's new at this, but it doesn't make it feel any less good just because she needs his guidance;  if anything, he finds the education of one so recently virgin utterly delicious.  "That's it, Dove… ohhh, that's it…"  He's a bit sorry that she's so bashful — he would love to see the look on her face as she beholds the result of her attentions — but she can certainly hear him voice his pleasure in a long growl, followed by several short, breathless moans.  "Saw ye brought in an extra bucket o' water,"  he murmurs once he's calmed down and the trembling has stopped. "If ye'd take it up in yer pitcher, now'd be a good time t' let me have it."  
  
The innkeeper smiles, rinsing him as he slowly stands up — of the soap, of the dirty water, of the droplet of thick white fluid that clings to his cock — then unfolds one of the sheets, wrapping him snugly from torso to floor, the second going over his head to dry his hair and face and shoulders.  "Sit,"  she orders, indicating the edge of the bed.  Then, after fetching a cut-glass bottle of sweet almond oil from her room, she seats herself next to him, working a few drops through his hair and beard before she begins combing them out.  
  
The touch of the innkeeper's hands in his hair causes the most wonderful prickles to shiver over Barbossa's scalp and down his spine.  He thought he was familiar with just about every pleasurable sensation that ever existed, but this is a new one, and it makes him groan, very softly.  
  
The innkeeper works his lengthy hair free of tangles, and ends by twirling his beard between her fingers to put it into its accustomed loose fork.  "There now,"  she tells him once it's mostly dry.  "All finished."  
  
The supremely happy Barbossa can't remember a time when he felt so relaxed and so satisfied in every way.  Breakfast has quieted his hunger for food, the warm water and soap have refreshed his body, and the innkeeper's touch has both torn him apart and put him back together.  It's a shame that he'll have to don his old, crusty clothes, but,  _Ehh_ ,  he thinks.  _Nothin' t' be done about that_.  
  
The innkeeper's a step ahead of him.  Though they'll still be old, and smelling of sweat and tar, gunpowder and the sea, just as they have since the day after they were new, she informs him that it's no trouble to beat out a lot of the dirt from his coat, waistcoat, and breeches, and to give his shirt and stockings a wring-out in soap and water.  "It will take awhile for them to dry,"  she says,  "and I'm sure your stockings will need darning, but if you want to go downstairs in the sheet, that's all right."  
  
Barbossa lifts an eyebrow, then grins.  "Showin' me off, are ye, darlin'?"  
  
"I didn't say I wanted you to drop it."  
  
Now he laughs outright.  "Strike you a bargain, Dove:  I'll not drop th' sheet an' show off me jewels if ye promise t' let me continue yer instruction when ye lie abed wi' me later."  
  
"Hector!"  The innkeeper blushes as she says his name;  a name she's can't get enough of speaking.  
  
It's a name that sounds sweet in her mouth, according to its owner's way of thinking.  "Ah, I do like when ye call me so,"  Barbossa says, putting a hand on her waist and tugging her closer.  "Now, what say ye t' me proffered bargain?  Do we have an accord?"  
  
The innkeeper narrows her eyes at him, for she's a sight more savvy about 'bargains' than he's used to, especially in women.  "What do you expect me to do?"  
  
"Nothin' that won't please th' both of us."  
  
"Why should I take your word?"  
  
"Do ye not trust me, darlin'?"  
  
"Should I?"  
  
For a moment, Barbossa thinks to be hurt by her question until he sees her faint smile and the twinkle behind her eyes, and he thinks back to a day long ago when he asked her to come to him, giving no reason except a nebulous promise that she would enjoy it.  _She weren't ready t' fall for me blandishments then, so why would she tumble for 'em now?  Or mayhap she just wants t' hear what I have for an answer_.  "Were ye someone else, p'raps not,"  he says bluntly.  "But what's betwixt us be diff'rent from bargains struck wi' men for goods an' gold" — _Or women for their trade_ ,  is what he doesn't add — "an' so I _ask_ ye t' trust that I seek only that ye'll find pleasure wi' me."  He runs his hand over the innkeeper's belly, thinking of how delightfully warm it is inside her.  "So answer me:  do we have an accord?"  
  
She slides off the bed, crouches down, and crosses her arms over his lap, looking up into his eyes, searching for hints of deceit that she's happy not to find.  "You needn't make bargains with me for such things,"  she finally tells him,  "not when you've only to ask for whatever you want.  What I can give has always been yours, and you know that… but if it makes you feel better, then yes, we have an ac…"  
  
Barbossa lifts her up by the arms and kisses her before the rest of the word can come out of her mouth.  "Ne'er again shall I speak of bargains nor accords t' be made 'twixt you an' me,"  he says once he lets her go.  "So, shall ye forgive a man what's so used t' rough ways that it seems he can't see 'tis a sweet, innocent Dove what's nestled 'gainst him, an' not some scoundrel intent on devilment an' mischief?"  
  
The innkeeper brushes away a tear, then leans forward to nuzzle her delicate nose against Barbossa's big, coarse one.  "Oh, Hector… the only thing you need forgiveness for is staying away so long."  
  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
  
The evening is quiet, with few lodgers, all of whom retire early, and Barbossa decides to follow their example.  "Come, darlin',"  he whispers, taking the innkeeper's hand.  "A long night's rest sounds just th' thing, eh?"  
  
Not, of course, that he has any intention of actually going to sleep until he's thoroughly worn himself out on her;  something he's been dreaming about all the lazy day.  
  
Barbossa is ushered, not into the room he occupied the night before, but into the innkeeper's bedroom;  and he notes how much more homely and personal it looks in comparison to the rooms she rents.  The same kind of washstand is there — the same pretty towels — but their embroidery is more ornate, and done in her favorite deep colors instead of pastels;  the armoire, instead of being plain, is handsomely carved.  There's a vanity table with a framed mirror, its attendant chair upholstered in slightly frayed blue brocade, and on its surface he sees the crystal bottle of almond oil she used in his hair that morning.  
  
The bedstead, too, is different:  unlike the others which are utilitarian wood, it's white-painted iron worked in ornamental curlicues, with white china finials.  And the quilt… it's quite the loveliest thing Barbossa has ever seen:  a warm, puffy thing with a cover of green and blue raw silk.  "Ah:  ye've brought th' colors of th' sea int' yer room,"  he says approvingly.  "Makes me feel right at home."  
  
He immediately drops his clothes and gets into bed.  "Let me look at ye,"  he says, which confuses the innkeeper into coming over and simply standing by the bedside.  "Nay,"  he clarifies gently as he takes her hand.  "I want t' watch ye undress."  This request makes her go pink in the face, and she demurs.  "Please, Dove.  No need t' be shy."  
  
Slowly, she sheds everything down to her chemise, and Barbossa's expression turns hungry when she lifts it to her thighs and begins to peel off her stockings.  Breasts and hips excite him in a woman, of course, but he also has a particular fondness for legs, leading, as they do, to the sweet parts which are his ultimate goal.  "What happened here?"  he asks, pulling her to sit on the bed beside him and drawing a fingertip along a scar on her knee;  not a long one, but wide and deep, as if from a gouge.  
  
The innkeeper's had it so long that she can scarcely remember its origin, but after a moment's thought,  "When I was a child, I bumped into something in the pantry one night;  I'm still not sure what.  Next I knew, there was a hole in my knee.  Not a lot of blood, as I recall, but it hurt like anything and took forever to heal."  
  
Barbossa leans over and kisses the elliptical scar.  "Seems that bein' on land bain't any safer'n bein' at sea."  He indicates a ragged scar on his left shoulder.  "Got this from a splinter when a mast were shot down."  
  
The innkeeper had noticed it when he was bathing earlier, and she sees scars up and down his right arm as well;  some clearly from lacerations, but others are harder to identify.  "These?"  she asks.  
  
"Mm.  Took a sword an' shot, both.  Bled like hell an' I were lucky not t' lose me arm."  
  
There are long scars across Barbossa's chest, one of which barely misses his left nipple;  another on his left hip.  All are souvenirs of sword fights, and are splendid examples of more bad stitching.  He has deep, awful burn marks on his left leg and shot scars on the calf — he took an oaken splinter there as well — and small cuts and abrasions everywhere have roughened his skin.  "Got those way back when I were a rigger,"  he explains, touching the burns.  "Some clumsy damned arse splashed a bucket of hot pitch down me leg when I were wearin' naught but a sark an' short petticoats, so there were plenty of naked flesh where it stuck an' burned.  They had t' throw water on me t' cool it afore they could peel it off."  Barbossa shudders, for this isn't a memory he cares to revisit.  "Took all th' hair an' half me skin an' were a torment for weeks."  
  
The innkeeper silently smooths her hands over the terrible scars, then kisses them.  
  
Barbossa watches her gently caress his damaged skin.  "Such ugliness don't frighten ye, Dove?  Ye're young an' lovely still;  have ye ne'er wished for a man what ain't so beat up an' broken down?"  
  
"Oh, Hector…"  The innkeeper leans down with her head on Barbossa's lap, closing her eyes when she feels his hands slip into her hair.  "You're neither… and the only man I've ever wished for is you."  
  
He strokes her hair, pushing the top of her chemise down a bit so he can rub her shoulders and back, when he suddenly catches sight of some thin, pale lines that can only mean one thing.  "Dove!"  he says, inhaling sharply.  "What be this?!  Ye've stripes on yer back!  What devil's been beatin' ye?"  
  
Shocked that he should have noticed, the innkeeper sits up, drawing away from him, and yanks her chemise up to cover herself.  "I'm sorry…"  
  
"Nay…!"  Barbossa pulls her back, wrapping his arms around her.  "Weren't yer doin' an' ye've naught t' be sorry for."  He kisses her cheeks, her forehead, her lips.  "Tell me what happened."  
  
"It's nothing,"  she mutters.  
  
"Not nothin'!"  Aware of how sharp he sounds and not wanting to unnerve her, Barbossa tries to gentle his voice.  "'It bain't nothin';  not when it hurts ye so.  Tell me what happened, darlin'.  Tell me…"  
  
The innkeeper sighs.  "It's nothing, really.  Nan got mad at me for getting her clean sheets dirty and threw me a beating, that's all."  
  
As fond as he's always been of the quiet atmosphere at Grantham House, Barbossa never much liked the old woman who ran it, and he's now been given a good reason to hate her.  "An' how old were you that she should flog ye so hard ye still carry the' marks?"  
  
"I don't know.  Seven.  Maybe eight."  
  
"What?!  'Tis an iniquity when ye were but a tender little girl…!"  Barbossa's beside himself at the thought of what the innkeeper suffered at the hands of a grandmother who regarded her barely as family;  more like an indentured servant.  "Let me see what she did."  It takes a bit of coaxing, but presently, he gets her to loosen the neck of her chemise again and drop it down her back.  "Ye got a salve for such things, ye say?"  he asks, pressing kisses to the worst of the scars.  "Well, ye may use it on me provided ye let me use it on you, so go fetch it now, eh?"  
  
It's kept in a drawer in the armoire where the innkeeper stores her other remedies and unguents, in a round cobalt-blue jar stoppered with wood that she brings back to the bed, letting Barbossa take a sniff to assure himself there's nothing noxious inside.  "Mm, smells nice,"  he says.  "What be in it?"  
  
The innkeeper touches up a bit between her fingers and rubs them around before patting it over the scar on his face, then his shoulder and arm.  "Soft beeswax,"  she replies,  "and almond oil.  Lemon and a drop of honey;  calendula, comfrey, and chamomile.  It won't make marks this bad go away, but they won't feel so tight."  She moves on to his back and chest and hip, rubbing the ointment in, soothing his skin.  "Here, let's have a look at your legs…"  
  
It's the first time in his life that Barbossa's felt them treated with such a gentle touch, and it brings back just for a moment the contrasting feelings of being sewn up with dozens of agonizing stitches, the fresh burns, and the torturous pull of the tar.  "Look at me, Dove,"  he says, wanting to gaze in the eyes of the woman who's giving him this unexpectedly wonderful sensation where before he felt nothing but pain.  
  
The innkeeper massages his legs with the mixture, eliciting soft moans that she mistakes for discomfort until Barbossa laughs and asks her please, _please_ not to stop.  "I only wish th' surgeon had somethin' like this in his medicine chest,"  he tells her,  "but all he knew were how to stab me wi' needles an' thread."  He snorts.  "Hunh, I think that butcher mighta been more used t' stitchin' sails than flesh."  
  
He could lie there all evening enjoying the soft mixture being applied to his body, until he recalls the scars on his lover's back.  "Your turn,"  he says.  "I daresay ye've ne'er had anyone care for those marks b'fore."    
  
"Doesn't matter…"  
  
"Does,"  Barbossa says firmly.  "It matters t' me.  Now lie down on yer belly.  Go on."  The neck of the innkeeper's chemise untied, he draws it down to her waist, examining her back, and is shocked to find that the marks of the whip don't stop there.  "What in perdition did that old bitch do t' ye?"  he growls, frowning, when he lifts the hem of the linen gown to discover several more stripes across her bottom and the backs of her thighs.  "Fuckin' hell, ye must not ha' been able t' sit down for a week!  Weren't no call t' thrash a little girl like that, an' I don't care how many sheets ye mucked up."  Then he forces himself to calm down, and gently strokes the scars before he begins to apply the sweet-smelling balm.  
  
Though as slender as the rest of him, Barbossa's hands are immensely strong and thickly calloused by a lifetime of handling ropes, wood, and weapons;  still, the salve smooths them and makes them a lot softer against the innkeeper's skin.  "I think we might be greasin' up yer sheets in a bit,"  he purrs after awhile, to an answering giggle.  "Shall ye mind?"  
  
"Mm-mm."  
  
Just the answer he wanted as his voice turns rough and his touch takes on the urgency of a man long denied.  "I'll take that as a 'no,' then, Dove."  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
Two weeks of days and nights pass quietly and much too quickly:  in relaxation and good eating;  in conversation and laughter;  in intimacy, and with care given and received.  It's very different from time ashore that Barbossa's experienced in the past;  there's no sullen drunkenness or being surrounded by truculent men, no coin shelled out for women who are not always careful to clean themselves of their previous customers and will go in search of others the moment they're finished with him.  
  
Not once does it occur to Barbossa to tire of this new affair of the heart;  on the contrary, it grows stronger as each day passes and he knows he'll be returning here as often as he possibly can, because Grantham House has already become home.  But to return requires that he must depart;  the first time he'll have left the innkeeper behind, not as some mere servant in a favored inn, but as his cherished lover.  
  
_I don't wanna leave_ ,  he thinks;  and although he feels it somehow disloyal to the _Pearl_ and the sea, it's not enough to dispel the thought.  
  
_I don't wanna leave;  not th' place, an' not her_.  
  
It's what he's thinking on the morning he sets sail and holds the innkeeper in his arms, comforting her as she tries unsuccessfully to hide her tears.  "I'll be back,"  he whispers.  "I promise ye solemn:  I'll be back, an' it won't be any fifteen years for it, neither.  So smile for me an' give me a kiss, for that be th' picture I'll warm m'self with when I'm alone."  She cries harder for a moment, then gets hold of herself, wipes her tears away, and manages the smile he wants to see.  "Ah, there now, Dove, there's a good girl."  Another kiss, and another, and another, and Barbossa would stand there kissing her for the next three hours if, damn it, he didn't have to leave.  
  
He won't allow her to accompany him to the docks, partly because he's not sure his crew won't make assumptions about what kind of woman she is and talk about her in terms that will make him angry.  But mostly it's because he knows her control will break down, she'll begin to sob, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to hide that she's breaking his heart as much as he's breaking hers.  So he'll take his leave of her here, in private, in their home, where only she can hear what he says and they can share a few final caresses with no public comment made on them.  
  
Ever solicitous of his welfare, the innkeeper has prepared something special for Barbossa to take with him:  a large wicker basket packed with some of his favorite foods for the first day or two of his voyage.  There are two loaves of newly-baked bread, three spiced chickens, a block of cheese coated in beeswax (which, melted, will be of excellent use when his lips get chapped), two red, ripe tomatoes, and a china dish of the rosemary-and-honey roasted carrots he can't get enough of.  There's a small bag of limes from her own tree, three oranges and as many apples, salt, cracked peppercorns, honey, and a crock of butter;  enough tea to last for a week or two while the ship's water is still sweet, a small bottle of fresh milk, good for just that night, and one of the innkeeper's pretty teacups with layers of toweling around it so it won't break.  Finally, tucked in a corner and wrapped in several layers of linen so their scent won't get into the food, is a pot of the balm she used on his scars, plus a large slice of castile soap.  She doesn't expect him to use the latter regularly;  rather, it's for those days when chafing and salt sores make him cranky and miserable and he really needs its refreshment.  "Think of me sometimes, Hector, won't you?"  she asks shyly as she slips the heavy basket over his arm.  
  
Barbossa kisses her again, wondering if she really understands how hard life at sea is and, therefore, what treasure she's just given him.  "Ohhh, ye know I will, sweet Dove,"  he murmurs, nearly struck dumb at the love he can feel in this kind gesture.  "Ye have m' thanks."  A last kiss, soft and barely there, just a sharing of breath.  "Until next time, then."  
  
He's gone before he, too, will shed tears.  
  
  


  
  
  
-oOo-  FIN  -oOo-  


  
  
  
  
-oOo-  Postscript and Assorted Author's Musings  -oOo-  
  


  
       
In spite of the innkeeper's ownership of a bathing tub, many people during this period thought baths to be unhealthy, especially if taken in hot water.  While Barbossa's knowledge of medicine is primitive and runs primarily to treating disease by the methods of leeching and bleeding — though he does know the benefits of Peruvian bark (quinine), and unintentionally staves off scurvy through his fondness for fruit — he is nonetheless very familiar, through many voyages to the east, with Asian-style bathing culture and has long since given up the belief that it holds any dangers, hot, cold, or otherwise.  The _Black Pearl_ has no dedicated bathing facilities (although Barbossa is fortunate in having, as was typical for captains, a private head in his cabin, which allows him to maintain a certain measure of needed dignity before his crew), but even if it did, he wouldn't foolishly waste the ship's limited supply of fresh drinking water for such a purpose.  However, frequent rainstorms not only provided additional fresh water, but also the opportunity for those men who wished it to have an outdoor shower, and — even more importantly — to rinse their clothes of skin-irritating salt.  
  
The shark bite that Barbossa sustained was at the outside of his right thigh, so it missed his femoral artery.  But it injured the muscle and never quite healed completely (bad stitching certainly didn't help);  hence, his limp.        
  
A pirate — and, sometimes, legitimate sailors — who lost a leg would frequently be put into the position of ship's cook, in order that he might remain useful.  I'm sure the crew hoped he'd be actually able to cook!  
  
Barbossa wouldn't think twice about a boy, no matter how young, being severely beaten for general misbehavior and failure to follow orders — he expects cabin boys and powder monkeys to come in for their share of floggings for mistakes and incompetence, just as he did when he was new aboard ship, and that they will bear their stripes with pride — but he thinks very differently about how little girls should be punished for their infractions.  This is largely because (in my headcanon) he grew up in a family of women — six sisters and his mother — and has a certain close knowledge of and respect for their physical delicacy.  If a little girl is to be disciplined and driven to tears, he believes, it should be with harsh words, not a beating;  at most, if she's done something really naughty, a switch should be applied against her upturned palms, but never all over her naked body.  He's loved the innkeeper ever since she was a teenager, and had he known her grandmother was thrashing her in such a way, especially to the extent of leaving permanent scars, he'd have taken the whip himself and turned it against the old woman, no doubt to fatal effect.


End file.
